


Retail Therapy

by GillO



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-28
Updated: 2010-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GillO/pseuds/GillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In "Dead Things" we see Spike has some lovely old rugs. We see a lot else too, which takes our minds off interior design. But he had to have got them from somewhere!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retail Therapy

There is only so long a person can take living in an outdated junkheap.

 

The first few decades are manageable, just about, but sooner or later the soul of a poet revolts. Even if he doesn't have a soul as such. And if there's even a slight chance that somebody – no special somebody, of course, just a random visitor - might drop in for more than a ritual exchange of insults and fisticuffs, then a little domestic purchasing – or acquisition at least – may well be a good idea.

 

Thus one warm twilit evening a pale, wiry individual sauntered into a local design emporium, one suggested by demon-girl as a place where vampires were, if not welcome, at least not frowned on. The place was some way upscale from a junk shop, with stuff the management probably liked to think of as "retro" – old enough to be moderately rare, new enough to be easy enough to come by. There was even a sense of style about the place – not just the clichéd chrome and black in the front part of the store, but a sequence of room settings put together by someone who had at least a rudimentary knowledge or personal memory of historical styles. Spike moved with interest towards a selection of goods reminiscent of his fledgling days. Good times.

 

The owner, very much aware of the identity and status of his newest customer, scurried forward, in hopes of a handsome profit, no doubt. Well, if luck was on his side he could escape with his life. Probably.

 

""Mr. Spike, what a pleasure to see you again! So glad you decided to come by my little store. What can I do for you tonight?"

 

"Stop fawning man. I need a shop clerk, not Uriah Heep."

 

The owner blinked, then clearly decided to ignore the obscure reference. "How may I help you, sir?"

 

Spike looked at him in a calculated way that started as mildly disturbing and then, as he licked his lower lip, became positively scary. The dealer's eyes widened and the scales on his neck flattened perceptibly as his manner became even oilier.

 

"It is housewares you are looking for? Or something a little more comprehensive? We can do a complete refit on very reasonable terms. Your crypt in our hands, as we like to say." He tittered, nervously.

.

A look of revulsion flitted across the sharp features of the vampire. "You don't bother me, I'll do my very best not to snap your neck. Deal?"

 

The dealer's expression of panic would have been more than enough to reassure the visitor that it was indeed an excellent deal.That is, if Spike had still been paying the slightest attention to him.

 

Instead his sensitive fingertips were already rubbing against the grain on a lush velvet coverlet, the exact colour of blood in a vein, almost purple-black in its intensity. As he stroked back and forth he could feel the harshness give way to silky softness before once more resisting the passage of his hands. Across the surface shimmers of embroidery twisted in complicated curlicues.

 

A tall mahogany cabinet caught his eye and he dropped the coverlet for later consideration, weaving sinuously between the heaps of rugs to draw his thumb along the sharp edges of the carvings which glowed redly in the lamplight. This had been his mother's favourite wood. Not long before their deaths he and his mother had visited Heal and Son, in the Tottenham Court Road, where she had been much taken with a very similar cabinet in the latest style. The delivery men had provided a nourishing snack for Drusilla. Those days were best gone and dusted.

 

A useful distraction, a card written in a very passable copperplate, attracted his attention. Large items of this sort could only be delivered in daylight hours, it stated. Hmm. If he ever became short of cash, that could be a job opening.

 

He drifted on. A heap of shawls, iridescent green tangling with gold and blue, cascaded onto the floor. He stroked a devoré silk across his face, rejoicing in the sensuousness.It was composed of a beautiful mix of deep jewel colours, just right for a girl who spent far too much time wearing pastels. Pocketing the piece, he moved towards a pile of cushions. Throw pillows – what a nonsensical term. If he threw anything it would be something with a little more power to damage, not some bleeding soft furnishing.

 

There was a stack of carpets to one side of the shop which drew him gradually towards them. They were intense, heavily ornate, again reminiscent of the fashions of his youth. Unlikely to be that old of course – some knock-off run up in a sweat-shop by people desperate to earn a crust. Still, they looked like good Persian rugs, and he could feel the density of the weave as he could see the rose-bloom and soft amethyst garlanding the strange devices in the centres.

 

"Over here mate," he called, before returning his attention to the rugs. The patterns in this pair were particularly effective – heraldic animals amidst convoluted twists of flowers. The designer had looked at the creatures in some detail, though many of his purchasers would assume they were imaginary.

 

The dealer oozed his way over to his customer. "Yes, sir? Is there anything I may be of assistance with? Ah, I see you're interested in our Bokhara rugs. Pure wool, hand-twisted in an intricate design, most of them dating back over fifty years – our more discerning customers appreciate the genuinely old and traditional touch…"

 

"Genuinely old? Even for California that's bloody stupid. Now stop wanking over the manufacture and tell me if you have something in this design but with more black and red in it."

 

"Ah yes, sir. We do find our more metabolically-challenged customers often prefer the intenser colours."

 

"Metabolically-challenged? I'm a vampire, you bleeding pillock. " It was really quite fun to watch the fawning change into cringing in the blink of an eye.

 

"I'm sorry, sir. Just trying to be tactful, sir…"

 

Definitely fun. His tongue just touching his lower teeth, Spike smiled. Not a particularly pleasant smile either. "I don't need tact, I need service. And an answer to my question sometime this century might be a good survival strategy too."

 

."Ah yes," Another titter there; really not a good idea. Spike swallowed, pointedly. Sensing that his approach might not be ideal, the dealer snapped his head up and signaled a minion. "The Dark Gem Bokharas. Over here."

 

"Dark Gem? What sort of poncy name is that? All I want is a sodding rug or two, not a bleeding thesaurus!"

 

Perhaps fortunately for the harassed shop-owner his minion scurried up at that moment, almost invisible under the weight of two luscious Persian carpets. Distracted for a moment, the vampire rubbed his hand, his inner wrist across the thick pile. If, just supposing if, a person wanted to lie down on this, the luxurious texture of the weave would provide a soft, enticing surface for relaxation. And yes, the colours were perfect. Cliché or not, there was nothing to beat old-gold picked out with touches of black and red. It wasn't as brash as he usually liked – subtly faded, like the best Persians often were – but it suited his mood. Sepia rather than Technicolor, you might say. He could just see it now, a tangle of underwear discarded on one side, her golden body writhing in ecstasy across the intricate patterns, her mouth on his, her hands exploring, bringing heat to every part of him.

 

The assistant staggered under the load. Her boss snapped at her, "Put them down you stupid bitch!"

 

The rugs hit the floor, all askew. Their handler was revealed as a small Pnongyart demon, female, with long, glossy tresses. She looked young and vulnerable – a little Bit alone in the literally cut-throat world of demonic commerce. She shook, "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realise…"

 

"No, you never do realise. I shoulda known what comes of hiring family. Why I shouldn't just can your ass is beyond me."

 

"Please, sir, you know what that would do to me…"

 

"How many times have I told you not to whine in front of the clients?" A vicious sweep of a clawed fist, and the young female was flying across the store, smashing into the wall with the sort of force that would have made even an onlooker smart a little. Almost without his realising it, Spike's face shifted, the sharp edges becoming even more pronounced, the eyes glaring golden.

 

"I don't quite get why you did that, mister," he snarled.

 

The shopdemon looked startled. Few of his regular clientele cared anything about the hired help. Many of them were far more likely to demand her head or his on a platter, with fries on the side. He hesitated.

 

"I asked you a question." Spike growled. This shopping lark wasn't as boring as he'd feared after all. He took a step closer, "You know, you are really getting on my wick at the moment. What did you do that to the kid for?"

 

The dealer was becoming increasingly bewildered; his ear-tentacles were thrumming alarmingly. "You're interested in the girl? We don't normally include the staff in our deals, but in the case of an eminent vampire such as yourself I'm sure we could come to an arrangement."

 

He probably didn't have time to realise he'd signed his own death warrant. Spike's fangs descended, his brow-ridges sharpened, he grasped the demon warmly by the neck and twisted. There was a sickening crack and the female slumped by the wall shuddered in sympathy. One quick glance in her direction, then Spike shrugged. Not his original intention to kill or feed, but this kind of demon had blood that was almost palatable – better than that of pigs at least. Waste not, want not. He lowered his mouth to the still-warm throat and drank deeply. It tasted like tin – not unpleasant, just not quite right. He pulled back well before the corpse was drained – too much and he knew he'd suffer in the morning. He didn't get hangovers from alcohol, but the wrong sort of demon blood was a killer the morning after. This stuff was the sanguinary equivalent of Watney's Red Barrel, but a bloke had to take what he could get, and it beat butchers' blood hands down.

 

There was a whimper by the wall. Bugger. Chivalry was a sod – there were always loose ends to tie off. The girl had, for a moment, reminded him of his Platelet. Now, though, he was left with a shop full of high-class junk and a whiny demonette. Oh well. Better go see the damage, he supposed.

 

"You OK, pet?" He leaned over her shivering body, reaching a hand to support her to her feet. Her wide red eyes looked back at him in something unnervingly akin to hero-worship, and she nodded hesitantly.

 

"So, now. What do you usually do with inconvenient corpses round here?" Oh bugger. Her startled face told him without the need for words that she really didn't have the foggiest idea. Probably new here.

 

"Come on, girl, switch the brain cell on. Where does the rubbish – the trash – go?" Her expression brightened. This at least she could cope with. Between them they managed to manhandle. (Demonhandle? Vamphandle? Whatever.) the late shop owner out of the rear entrance and into a dumpster. Sunnydale Sanitation Department knew better than to investigate such contents too closely – or at all.

 

Back in the shop, Spike took the girl to the rear of the shop, some sort of store room. He was able to snag a box of Kleenex for her, but not a chance of the bottle of Jack he really needed for himself. This was strange territory for him. What the hell was he doing comforting some strange demon girl he'd never met before and shouldn't give a toss about? She had hair like Dawn's, yes, but that was hardly enough. Was it?

 

This was getting dangerously close to philosophical territory. He shook his head and turned to focus on practical matters. "Does this guy have family? Are you going to have too much explaining to do?"

 

She shook her head mutely. "I'm his niece," she offered, hesitantly. "There's no-one else."

 

Relieved, he saw an opening. "That makes you his heir then, dunnit? So, what say we do a little business?"

 

Half an hour later, awash with foul coffee but the proud owner of an early Art Nouveau dresser, some lush bedding and six, slightly-faded rugs, he left the store. No problem about delivery after dark either – he'd been able to put the girl in touch with a couple of his former minions at Willy's. They would know better than to try to bilk him. The demon world of Sunnydale knew about the chip, but they also knew where it did not apply – mostly. One little detail, one non-demon he could hit - he was keeping that firmly to himself.

 

At times he missed proper High Streets, but at least this American shopping mall had the great advantage of being under cover – no sunlight, ever. A gentle stroll along the row of shops and he could easily pick up what else he needed. Buy, he added conscientiously to himself. No point in enraging her any more than he needed to. This was not going to be a fly-by shag if he could help it. If there was going to be a shag at all, that is. Stop jumping to conclusions, Spike.

 

Strong artificial odours assailed his sensitive nostrils. Bloody Americans. What was all this obsession with smells, anyway? His throat rumbled appreciatively – if only she would stop using all those products, start smelling like herself.

 

No, definitely not. She was quite disgusted enough by their liaison without being asked to avoid bathing for his sake. She liked fancy smells, that's what she was going to get. He sauntered inside, avoiding the most synthetic aromas instinctively. Musk? Not in a hundred years. Decisively he crossed to the perfumed candles and selected three or four in several different fragrances, redolent of the scents of his youth, the spices of Christmas time, cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice. Fragrance sachets – what the fuck? Bowls of pot-pourri, like his mama had made from her beloved rose-garden. Wax fruits – candles again presumably, apples, quinces and plums, a rich sheen making them look almost real. Lavender – again a sudden sharp note of nostalgia for long ago – to perfume the blanched, heavy linen sheets. He heaped them recklessly into the flimsy basket provided by the store, then moved to the display of silken drapes, filmy scarves in azure and ruby, emerald and topaz. He smirked, just a little, at the thought of precisely what could be done with such fripperies, then repressed it sternly. These things were for his own delight, no-one else's. He sorted through, taking a handful in the deep, rich colours, which would echo his new rugs and the golden coverlet, and moved towards the checkout. Payment again – he was doing more of that today than he had quite possibly in the last fifty years.

 

One last call, and it was impossible here to maintain the pretence that he was shopping solely for himself. The adult toystore was far from discreet, once you moved past the display of lingerie, and within there was no room for confusion about the purpose of its wares. He pushed past the pathetic attempts to recreate costumes, looked briefly at edible thongs and sniffed at the garish plastic objects on display. No girl of his would ever need that sort of stimulation – not from an artificial source anyway.. She's not your girl. Don't kid yourself. Jelly? Suction cup? He shuddered. It took a lot to squick a vampire, but those colours. Ugh. At last he found what he had been looking for. He snorted as he noted a beginner's kit but swiftly refocused on the more serious restraints. God but those models on the box lids looked bored! He noted one or two more advanced items for later reference, but took just a pair of cuffs, neat but strong – if anything was really strong enough to resist vampire or slayer strength. He had his doubts, but it might be fun to test out the merchandise.

 

 

 

 

Back at the crypt time seemed to be on overdrive. Fortunately even this far south the sun set earlier at this time of year, for there were several necessary garbage disposal trips to be done. No need any longer for his little shrine, though certain items were squirreled away for later stroking. The bed was stripped, pushed into a central position and readied for its new covers.

 

A noise from upstairs attracted his attention. The delivery was right on time – excellent. He sped up to the upper level.

 

And stopped.

 

"Hello, Clem."

 

"Spike, hey, buddy. I was at a loose end tonight. Geddit?" He pulled at a fold or three of flesh, "So I thought we could hang out? I brought snacks, and some Country Time – the pink sort. What's on your TiVo?"

 

"Clem, mate, good to see you." No point in driving Mr Saggy away – he had proved his usefulness a dozen times. Spike kinda liked the guy anyway. Careful, then, "Look, I'd really like to hang out tonight, but I have stuff to do. I have deliveries coming. If you know what I mean?" Spike hoped Clem did – for the unlife of him he wouldn't be able to explain if asked.

 

"Yeah, yeah, I understand, pal." Clem smiled a secretive smile that was disturbing in its knowingness. Clearly there was room for a little research there. Later.

 

"Tell you what – we'll make a date for tomorrow night, OK?" If the visit he was hoping for tonight happened, then Injured Virtue would stay well away the next night – so a backup plan made sense.

 

"Tomorrow? That would be great! If that works for you, that is. Don't want to intrude. We could rent videos too, if you like."

"Great, great. See you tomorrow then, OK? You bring the videos, I'll get the beer in."

 

A hammering on the door made both turn round. Two heavy-jowled vamps stood there, not even bothering to conceal their vampfaces. Young and stupid, then. And quaking, which was gratifying. Bloody great timing, though.

 

Spike gave the deliverymen a brief nod and a raised eyebrow. Clem suddenly brightened at the sight of what they were holding. "My goodness, Spike. What you got there?

 

"Stuff." Taciturnity rarely worked with the flabby demon who had quite enough conversation for three, but it was about all Spike had left, short of violence. Predictably, it failed to work.

 

"I can see. What a wonderful closet! And those rugs – perfect. Is your ladyfriend coming back from South America? You never said."

 

"No she is not!" Strange how even now that had the power to sting, just a little. "I'm just doing it up for myself. Fed up of the leavings of the rubbish tip, that's all."

 

"Rubbish tip? Oh you English." Clem chuckled indulgently at the bizarre turn of phrase. But it was far from enough to turn his attention from the deliveries the vampires were carrying through the crypt and arranging at the edge of the access point to the lower level. There was a suspicion of a squeal as he spotted the rich velvet coverlet in old gold, and the rugs, all toning in shades of the same gold, red and black entranced him.

 

"Hey, pal, I have the best idea. Did you catch some of those Brit makeover shows on cable? Like Trading Spaces but some other name? There was a guy on there with the most spectacular things you could do with these. All it would take would be a touch of paint and a few stencils. We could hang drapes to match! I could totally help out!"

 

Spike had his suspicions about the original Llewellyn-Bowen. The thought of a demonic variant let loose in his crypt was quite enough to galvanise the vampire. In a rush of activity he tipped the hired muscle, pushed them out of the door, and somehow, without quite grasping how, let alone why, his baggy friend found himself leaving along with the delivery vamps.

 

And suddenly there was no time to lose. A whirlwind possessed him as he arranged candles and drapes, left strategic handfuls of silk puddled in iridescent heaps, stroked the gold coverlet onto the bed and scattered the rugs artlessly on the floor. This time was going to be different – slow, gentle, a genuine seduction, a means of showing his love, not just the passion.

 

The pretence, during his shopping trip, that the décor was for himself alone faded in the realisation that his glowing girl could soon be in the room with him, her energy flowing around him, the desperate violence of her embrace passionate enough to feel real.

 

A final touch; once he had lit the candles, the waxen pillars filling the chilly room with warm light, he stripped to the waist and donned a red and black figured velvet gown, of the sort Oscar – or even Angelus – might have worn a century ago. The silk pile rubbed against his bare skin and despite himself he felt his unbeating heart rise in anticipation, a convulsive swallow quite inadequate to control his soaring hopes. He'd been a gentleman once, and an aesthete. Now Buffy would see the real him.

 

An hour later the robe was back in the bag he'd pulled it from. Far too poncy. Perhaps she could wear it. Later. The black tee wasn't trying to prove anything and was cheaper to replace if it got ripped.

 

Half an hour longer. Sod it. Too busy with her stupid kiddy friends. Much more pacing and he'd have a track worn in the stone floor. Shrugging, he switched on the telly and took a mug from the fridge. He was better off on his own anyway.

 

He nestled down into the battered sofa. Next candidate for a makeover, perhaps. Blood, booze, a TV – what more could he really want? Don't answer that. Spike. Pity the stuff on the box was such crap tonight though.

 

The door slammed open. A vision of gold filled the entrance. A bad-tempered vision at that.

A vision with its hands on its hips and the sort of expression that promised violence. Not design appreciation.

 

And then thought vanished, as her hands gripped his head and pulled it roughly towards her mouth. Together they tumbled down towards the beautiful new bedding. They missed.

 

Clothes flew in every direction, knocking over tastefully-arranged displays. Hands travelled over heated flesh and over still white skin. The chill of the stone counterbalanced the intensity and friction of the two bodies, interlocked and in perpetual motion. She had noticed none of his artful décor.

 

Spike really didn't care.


End file.
